


with sails unfurled

by ephemeralblossom



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Developing Friendship, Gen, Trapped In Elevator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-21 21:06:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8260523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ephemeralblossom/pseuds/ephemeralblossom
Summary: Ainsley gets stuck in an elevator halfway through the Monday morning from hell. With Sam Seaborn, of course.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SuburbanSun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuburbanSun/gifts).



Ainsley gets stuck in an elevator halfway through the Monday morning from hell. She’s been running around government buildings in a new pair of heels since seven, trying to avert a looming crisis that could put the White House in an untenable legal position on what is, after all, a small matter only for the moment, for it has the possibility to become, forthwith, a large matter, and if it does it will be escalated to her boss, Lionel Tribbey, who would no doubt find himself able to deal with it with a few well-placed roars; but meanwhile she, Ainsley, would have failed, and she is too fond of this job, however mixed the political company, to allow such a disastrous event to occur. Heels or no heels.

“You look like I should tell you to breathe,” Sam says, from where he’s leaning against the elevator wall.

Oh, yes. Ainsley not only has blisters to deal with, but a human leech. She likes Sam, but she’s beginning to think that the West Wing needs to give him more to do, because he always seems to be finding himself at loose ends and tagging along with her. A word in Toby’s ear would no doubt solve the matter, but she doesn’t want to give herself a reputation for being standoffish or antisocial. She may not be interested in anything more than friendship with Sam, but he is, if sometimes infuriatingly patronizing, essentially kindhearted; she does not forget “He Is An Englishman”.

“If you don’t tell me to breathe, I won’t have to tell you where you can put your suggestions,” she says, pleasantly, but with a certain arch of eyebrow.

He laughs, and this is another reason she is inclined to like him, despite his liberal paternalism. She has always been disarmed by people who can laugh at themselves. “I apologize.”

As their enforced captivity lengthens, they end up sitting on the floor together, discussing their favorite Supreme Court opinions. (Many people have favorite Supreme Court judges. Ainsley has favorite Supreme Court _opinions_ , and she can recite particularly important or beautiful sections from heart.) When the electricians free them after half an hour – it is, after all, only a minor governmental building, not the White House – they emerge still sparring over whether opinions from the last ten years should be considered for inclusion among the all-time greats, or whether a relevant consideration is influence over the passage of time.

“Guess they found something to do in there,” one of the electricians says, sotto voce.

Ainsley would have let it go – she is, after all, carrying her heels in her hand, and Sam took off his tie and loosened his collar after the first ten minutes. They are technically _en déshabillé_ , although the connotations of that phrase do not apply. The misapprehension, while crude, is therefore understandable.

Sam, however, turns. “Do you have something to say to us?” His politeness is barbed, the danger in his voice unsheathed. 

Ainsley doesn’t need protection, but she smiles nonetheless, a secret curve of the lips when Sam isn’t looking. It’s that combination of passion and earnestness that makes this White House, and Sam in particular, impossible to hate.

The electrician mumbles an apology before skedaddling, and Sam turns back to her, his plumage visibly ruffled. “Sorry about that. They see a beautiful woman, and they assume that I must be…”

“Indulging in a violation of the prohibition on dating coworkers?” Ainsley finishes for him, when he seems to be having difficulties. 

“Something like that,” Sam says. He’s definitely blushing. “Sorry, I probably shouldn’t have called you beautiful either. I respect your mind, Ainsley.” 

He’s teasing, but he’s also serious.

“Well,” Ainsley says, setting her heels on the floor and slipping her aching feet back into them, “I can hardly fault you for observing an objective fact.” 

She lets him see the laughter in her eyes, though she keeps her face deadpan. 

“And after all,” she adds, as they take a shortcut back to the White House, “they were right. We did find something to do in there.”

“We did,” Sam says, grinning. 

The people who work here are Democrats. They are smug, and elitist, and think they have the sole claim to moral virtue; they are paternalistic, and casually sexist, and seem to run the entire country on Jed Bartlet and C.J. Cregg’s charm, Josh Lyman’s bravado, Toby Ziegler’s surly eloquence, and Leo McGarry’s elbow grease.

But against all odds, Ainsley is beginning to like them.

(For a certain value of ‘like’. And never forgetting her roots, or her principles, or her goals.)

“Come on,” she says, picking up the pace despite her aching feet. The only way to deal with Mondays from hell is to blaze through them with sails unfurled. “If you’re going to follow me around, you might as well get a sandwich in the mess with me and bring it down to the Steampipe Trunk Distribution Venue. I’m not finished with United States v. Lopez yet.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Sam says, saluting, with that irrepressible smile.

As they head into the White House, Ainsley realizes that she is beginning to feel at home. 

Even (or perhaps especially) during Mondays from hell.

***


End file.
